Hitting Notes
by ArtistForever
Summary: Gustave has become a troubled child after his mother's murder. After he gets into a physical fight at school, how will his father deal with him? LND-based. *One-Shot*


**Author's Note:** **Inspired by a Tumblr conversation about how Erik would probably spoil the crap out of Gustave after the events of LND.**

Gustave set his luggage down hard beside the front door, not reacting as a suitcase thumped onto its side. He simply stepped over it and kept walking. Erik closed the door behind them, shutting out a wintery gale. He sighed as he brushed snowflakes from his shoulders, watching his son disappear down a corridor. He followed, finding the disgruntled fourteen-year-old seated in the lounge.

"Gustave…this has gone far enough."

The teenager didn't raise his head from where it was propped against his hand. "You have no idea how far 'enough' is. You aren't the one imprisoned there."

"I'm the one paying for you to receive a good education," Erik said firmly. He lowered himself into the loveseat behind the coffee table, facing Gustave. "That's a luxury I was never afforded."

"And look where you are," Gustave held out his hands, motioning around the upscale countryside villa they resided in. "Apparently, a formal education is meaningless."

Erik clenched his jaw. He had worked much too hard and much too long to achieve what he had. Even so, without the support of Madame Giry and her daughter…her daughter…he never would have made anything of himself. He was about to bring this point up, but thought better of it. The name 'Giry' was a forbidden topic in their household.

"But suspended for a full semester," Erik said, shaking his head in dismay and disappointment, "and for a fist fight, no less. I raised you to have higher standards than that."

Gustave, who had been avoiding eye contact with his father, looked him straight in the eye. Their irises shared the same rich shade of brown. "You hardly 'raised' me at all. Mother raised me!" With that, the teenager stood and hurried to the stairway.

Erik stood after him. "Gustave! Come here when I'm speaking to you!"

"Why should I?" Gustave paused briefly on the stairs to scowl at his father before bounding into the upstairs hallway.

Erik settled back onto the loveseat, massaging his temples. He heard Gustave's bedroom door open and slam shut overhead. His son was correct. Erik had only been his father four years out of his life. The first decade of Gustave's life had been filled with the presence of his mother. Meg's bullet had taken more than Christine's life, it had torn a wound in Gustave's. Erik's as well.

They had no photos of her, having fled from New York the very night of her death. Erik couldn't bring himself to buy a record of her songs. Hearing her singing voice would have been too painful for either one of them to bear. The only reminder Erik had left of his beloved was their son. Gustave, however, had nothing left of his mother besides fading memories. He hadn't been the same since her death. He was no longer the little boy Erik met at Coney Island. He was someone much angrier, much more loathsome of the world…much like Erik had been in his younger days. Christine would have found an ironic humor in this.

Oh, how Erik longed to still have Christine there by his side. She had handed guardianship of Gustave to him with her dying breaths; but, truth be told, he had no idea how to raise a child. All he knew then was all he knew now. Christine, he was sure, would have known how to talk Gustave down from these rebellious fits. Though, of course, if she were still with them, these fits wouldn't be happening.

Regardless, Erik always had one goal as Gustave's father: to give his son a better life than he had been allowed. In that sense, he had succeeded. The past four years, he had used the amount of wealth he'd managed to retain to give Gustave anything his heart desired. Toys, clothes, sweets, it didn't matter what he gave. Gifts hadn't stopped the grief – stopped Gustave's slow spiral. Nothing had.

That was…except for those moments when…

Erik looked into the corner of the lounge. The grand piano sat there, unused all winter due to the arthritis that flared up in Erik's fingers. He moved himself to the bench, rubbing his knuckles. It would hurt, but it was the only thing he could think to do. Taking a deep breath, he placed his fingertips over the ivory keys and began coaxing a melody from them. The first notes were agony, but as the familiar motions continued the pain ebbed. He didn't know how many times he went over the song before he risked his first glance over his shoulder.

Gustave slunk back, trying to hide behind the railing. He was standing at the top of the stairs, and had clearly been listening to his father's playing.

"Would you like to join me?" Erik asked.

"No," Gustave huffed.

"As you wish."

Erik touched his fingers to the keys again. This time, he made each note slow and deliberate. He wanted to reveal the melody bit-by-bit, as to not chase Gustave away. Note after note, Erik played the aria he had written for Christine to sing at Coney Island. Gustave had heard the tune several times during that time. When he had fist come to live with his father, he would always run and lock himself in his bedroom whenever Erik would try playing the score for memory's sake.

Periodic glances over his shoulder confirmed that Gustave was still in attendance as the song progressed. He didn't so much as twitch, but he was still there. At the song's end, Erik casually stood and walked into the kitchen. He rattled dishes a bit louder than usual as he retrieved a teacup and filled it. As he stood sipping his drink, he listened as someone tip-toed across the lounge floorboards. He went through the dining room and came to the staircase. Gustave wasn't there.

He brought his tea upstairs, never glancing at the piano. As soon as he was around the corner, a certain aria came fluttering to his ear from below. He opened and closed a door, pretending to step inside. The playing became louder. Erik laughed to himself, taking another gulp of his drink. As he stood quietly and listened, Christine's aria became livelier, faster, louder. The slow, drawn-out melody Erik had played was alive with leaping, dancing passion from his son.

When his cup was empty and the playing reached its conclusion, Erik ventured back downstairs. While on the steps, he heard a quick shuffling. Gustave was in an armchair, slumped over like he'd been there all along.

"So," Erik said, returning to the loveseat and setting his empty teacup on the table, "what exactly started this fist fight of yours?"

A sniffle escaped Gustave and he turned away to scratch his eyes. He'd been crying, though it was clear he was trying to hide that fact. "They were talking behind my back. I told them if they wanted to talk, they should talk to me face-to-face like men."

"Who swung first?"

"Peter did."

"Truly?" Erik asked dubiously, raising an eyebrow.

Gustave cleared his throat, pulling his sleeves as far as possible over his bruised hands. "I did."

"Ah, I see."

"I only swung after…after Jonathan said I was the son of a whore."

"Excuse me?" Erik gasped.

"It's the truth!" Gustave insisted. "That was the last straw for me. I aimed right for his eye after he said it."

A part of Erik was tempted to ask if the bastard bled, but he suppressed it. This behavior couldn't continue, not if Gustave was to grow into a proper man of society. "Well, I never want you throwing punches again."

Gustave rolled his red-rimmed eyes.

"Instead of fists, why not put your hands to better use?" Erik motioned to the piano. "You've calmed quite a bit since playing, have you not?"

"I suppose," Gustave shrugged.

"If you run into trouble again," Erik said, "instead of playing a tune on someone's teeth, try doing the same on an instrument that won't hit back. They enjoy being hit, actually. It makes them sing louder."

Gustave chuckled for a second, but bit his tongue. "The school has a grand piano somewhere, I'm sure. A bit of music might make the year more tolerable."

"I promise you, it will," Erik said with a slight smile. Perhaps what little he knew about child rearing would be enough after all. Christine would be proud.


End file.
